


Christmas Eve Dead Novelists' Society

by oonaseckar



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989), Original Work
Genre: Character Turned Into a Ghost, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Ghost, Christmas Presents, Dead Poets Society - Freeform, F/M, Ghosts, Ghosts of Christmas, Haunting, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, ghost - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 05:56:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21387214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: Harriet gets an invite to a dead writers' Christmas Eve get-together.Howfestive.
Relationships: Harriet/Ted
Kudos: 2





	Christmas Eve Dead Novelists' Society

**Author's Note:**

> Many chapter titles from the Clement Clark Moore poem.

There was an invitation in her email inbox, when Harriet got in from her last-minute supermarket scavenge. (With the cheap and nasty, thin green and red Christmas wrapping paper -- you know the type, perfect for subtly insulting any recipient.) She examined it carefully, shopping bags strewn across the living room carpet, and snowflakes still glinting like cheap rhinestones in her greying hair.

It was heavy on the memory-consuming graphics -- silver and gold, very seasonal. 'Poets, Novelists, Writers of the ages, we invite you, Miss Cooper: take your place amongst immortal practitioners of the art, and join the Ghosts of every age of Christmas in celebrating the festive season, thanks to your membership of the Dead Novelists' Society!'

Except that she had never joined any 'Dead Novelists' Society', of course. Well, she was an old lass -- fifty, now -- and not always too wise to the ways of the world. But it wasn't as if she'd never encountered email _spam _before.

It was odd, though, no getting around that. It was odd, because Harriet did like to follow _dead writers. _On GoodReads, on Twitter, on Facebook, et cetera. It wasn't such a _very _odd thing to do. So she told herself. Well, she knew quite well that they weren't going to follow her _back_.

(Or if they did, then it was a fan tribute account, or just a manic bot.)

Of course, it was also odd -- a little off-putting -- since she also wasn't, well, _dead_.

But she had more pressing matters on her mind, now. And never mind the email! Already, there was a batch of cooking prep ruined, since she'd forgotten to put the egg in the Yuletide log chocolate sponge cake. Her hubby (despite the Dead Novelists assuming her maiden aunt status) had come back from his cousin's house, after borrowing some car tools, with embarrassingly unexpected presents. No, _of course_ she had nothing to offer in return. 

And then, _tra la_, her latest manuscript draft, of the festive murder-mystery she'd been working on for months, was cocked up beyond all repair.

In short, she was brassed off, tired, headachy, and about ready to _cancel_ sodding Christmas. Perhaps she should book whatever vacancy AirBnB offered in her price range, and just disappear. At least, until early February.

As a milder alternative, she filled up a tumbler with some nasty cheap sweet sherry, and plonked herself down at her desk, to spend an unproductive hour trawling the net for harmless entertainment.

She had a pain in her chest, though -- trapped wind, probably, and she refused to allow herself to give in to the urgent demands of hypochondria.

It _wasn't _an incipient heart attack. Probably.

No arm pain. Quite sufficient proof!


End file.
